One Last Call for Help
by SylvieT
Summary: Third instalment into my study of Grissom and Lady Heather's unlikely and enduring friendship. Based on episode 7.23 The Good, The Bad and The Dominatrix. GSR.


A/N: Third instalment into my study of Grissom and Lady Heather's unlikely and enduring friendship. The first one is called _A Little Civility Before Work_ and the second _A Friend in Deed_. The stories can all be read independently and hopefully offer some insight into their relationship, but also into his and Sara's developing romance. That's what I set out to do, really, show Grissom's growth as a man, friend and lover over the years. I hope I succeeded a little in doing that.

Some dialogue is taken from episode 7.23 _The Good, the Bad and the Dominatrix _and sadly isn't mine.

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><p>Grissom paused outside the hospital door and took a moment to calm his racing heart and the swirling thoughts in his head. What had happened? What had Heather been doing in a place like this? Catherine's call informing him that Heather was the victim of the attempted murder case he'd sent her and Sara on, had panicked him, each scenario creeping into his mind as to what could have happened more horrific than the last. He hadn't had much contact with Heather since the previous year's events, but he'd heard she had wound down her business and thought she was doing better. But was she?<p>

He had dropped everything, without so much as a word to anyone as to where he was going, without a thought as to what consequences his actions would have on his and Sara's relationship. He'd jumped in his car and driven to Desert Palm on autopilot. He just needed to see for himself, make sure Heather was okay, then he'd go back to CSI and return to his miniature. But now, at her door, with his hand on the handle, he wasn't so sure. Maybe he should have told Sara and been upfront with her from the start.

He blew out a breath and with no more hesitation pushed the door open just as a camera flash lit up Heather's beaten face. His eyes flicked to the left, stopping with disbelief on the person with her back to him and holding the camera.

"These look like rope marks on your neck," Sara remarked softly, unaware, as she studied the strangulation marks on Heather's neck. She raised her camera, snapping a couple more shots in quick succession.

He could have made a quick retreat, escaped before being noticed, pretended that he'd never come but he didn't. His and Sara's relationship was strong, built on trust, love and respect, and Heather was just a friend. Sara knew that; she would understand. And besides he'd had every intention of telling her; his being there needn't be a secret.

"Grissom," Heather said in a soft gasp, her eyes brightening as they met his while he stood staring, still frozen in the open doorway.

His eyes drifted back to Sara who turning gave him a wan smile. "I'll be done in a minute."

She didn't seem overly surprised that he was there, as though she'd been expecting to see him. He hadn't her. His eyes flicked back to Heather, wondering whether his surprise was as obvious to her as he feared, whether he'd stared at Sara a second too long and given his feelings for her away.

"Sara," he said in a breathless whisper, "I―I thought Catherine was doing this."

Sara's only reply was to lift her brow in a way that said, "Evidently not." Then she turned back to Heather and finished the job she had started, gently moving her hair out of the way to document the bruise on her cheek and the rest of her physical injuries. He could only watch, helpless, from the door.

When a few minutes later Sara offered Heather a parting smile Grissom still hadn't moved. Her lips thinned in a forced smile as she reached his side and told him all that needed to be said in one long, disappointed stare. He opened his mouth to speak but his eyes flicked to Heather and no sound came. Heather was watching their interaction like a hawk and he knew she'd worked it out. She was no fool, and he'd always been an open book to her.

"I'm done," Sara said.

He did a double take, briefly wondering what she meant. Was she talking about the two of them, their relationship? He realised then that he should have dissipated the awkwardness and introduced the two women properly.

Sara broke eye contact first, her eyes shifting to Heather and then back to him. "I'll leave you two to catch up."

Grissom silently stepped aside, letting her pass.

At the last moment she paused, looking over her shoulder at Heather. "I'm very sorry we had to meet in those circumstances," she told her softly, and then to him, "I'll see you back at the lab."

He flashed Heather a quick helpless glance and smile, before rushing out the room and catching up with Sara at the elevators. The doors were already open and she was about to step in. "Sara, wait!" he called urgently, his step quickening. "Please, wait."

Letting out a long tired sigh, Sara froze mid-movement. His hand reached for her shoulder, holding her in place as the elevator doors slid shut in case she had a last minute change of mind and bolted.

She turned, her gaze meeting his dead on. "It's okay," she said, forcing a smile. "You go take care of her. I got to get these back to the lab." Her eyes moved to a point beyond his shoulder.

People began gathering around them waiting for the elevator, and he steered her out of the way to a more secluded corner. She was looking down to the floor and his hand moved to her cheek, gently coaxing her face up. Their eyes met and he smiled, but suddenly remembering they weren't alone he quickly drew his back before checking over his shoulder for prying eyes.

"It's okay," she said again. "We'll take later."

He smiled. "You sure?"

She swallowed and after a couple of seconds nodded her head at him. "Just…" she pulled her lips into a tight line and shrugged the rest of her sentence off.

"She's my friend," he said, "You know that. But she's also been the victim of a serious attack. She won't talk to you, or Catherine, and even less Brass, but she might find it easier to talk to me, confide in me."

"This isn't your case," Sara said tersely. "You are not working this case."

"No, I'm not but-"

"I am," she went on as though he hadn't spoken. "It's my case."

"Well, strictly speaking it's Catherine's," he retorted, but no sooner had the words passed his lips than he regretted them.

Sara fixed him with narrowed, reproachful eyes and he apologised straightaway. His hand reached for her face again and he sighed, his eyes flicking to a passing nurse. She was watching them, and taking a step back from Sara he acknowledged her with a half-nod.

"Okay," he told Sara when the nurse was gone, searching her gaze. He ran a slow hand over his brow. "You're right. I'm…here as her friend, nothing more. I'm just going to make sure she's okay. I won't interfere with your investigation. If she talks to me, volunteers information, I'll pass it on to you and Catherine straightaway. Everything, I promise. But I _can't_ not go to see her. She has no one. You understand that, don't you?"

"I do." Sara held his gaze, her lips curling downward into a sad smile. "I'm sorry. It's just that…she isn't what I was expecting, that's all. I thought…" she gave her head a shake, "never mind."

He scanned the corridor for watching eyes and reaching for her free hand squeezed it fondly. He knew she had expected Heather to be the almost mythical creature she'd heard so much about but instead she'd met the small, haunted, broken woman he had seen before and knew so well. She'd met his friend, not the dominatrix. "I should have introduced the two of you properly, I'm sorry. I could tell from the way she was watching us that she already knows who you are. But we have nothing to fear she won't tell."

Sara gave him a wan smile, nodding. Her watch beeped and she pulled away. "I should go."

He nodded, following her back to the bank of elevators. She pressed the down button.

"I won't be long here. I'll see you back at the lab," he said as she stepped inside the car.

"You will," she smiled.

He waited until the elevator door had closed on Sara to head back to Heather. This time he knocked, and when he walked in she greeted him with a knowing smile on her lips.

"So," she said in a rasped whisper, "Sara Sidle. She's the special someone you talked about last year."

Unable to suppress his smile he closed the distance to her, grabbing a chair on the way. "It's that obvious, is it?" he asked, sitting down.

"That you love her? To me, yes. To everyone else," she shrugged, "I can't say." He hid his surprise at the fact that she should choose to use as strong a word as 'Love' behind an uncomfortable twist of his lips. "Sadly it's a feeling, an emotion I'm not that familiar with," she added, the self-pity in her voice undisguised and heart-breaking coming from someone usually so strong and proud.

Unsure how best to respond, he watched her tenderly for a moment. His hands twitched on his lap wanting to reach out but not quite daring to. Whatever attraction, sexual or not, he might have felt in past encounters was only just a distant memory, his concern for her while still very strong no more than that of a dear friend. His eyes flickered to the bruises on her neck and he leaned across, gentle fingers lifting her hair out of the way so he could study the strangulation marks more closely. He winced.

"She seemed very nice," Heather continued musingly, "self-confident and trusting too." She gave a faint smile and her head a jerk so that her hair fell back down, covering her wounds. "Someone you work with though, I'm surprised. I expect no one knows?"

His shoulder lifted as though his reply was obvious, which apparently it was, for the corners of her lips curled up knowingly. He could feel her gaze on him as she smiled, and she didn't need to say the words for him to know that his secret was safe with her. His eyes returned to hers and he smiled.

"It's a lot of risks to be taking," she remarked, holding his gaze, testing him and his resolve.

"She's worth it," he said quietly. His eyes flicked back to her neck. "So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Her jaw set, her eyes darkening as they averted downward. She breathed out a long sigh. "I thought Sara was working the case."

"She is."

"Then why are you here?" She met his gaze dead on. "Are you here in a professional capacity?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Maybe not to you," she said, and he found it strange that she should speak the same words as Sara, ask the same questions of him. "I feel exposed," she added, cutting into his thoughts and he refocused. "The last time you saw me-"

"You had just lost your daughter."

Her eyes averted. "That's not the only thing I lost that night."

"If a client did this," he went on, steering clear of her attempt at diverting his focus away from the case, "and left you to die, why are you protecting him?"

"I'm not," she replied in a pant.

"Tell me the truth," he insisted levelly.

Her breathing became ragged, laboured, worsening incredibly rapidly.

A look of fear crossed his face. "Did they check your glucose levels when you came in?"

She didn't reply; just closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the pillow as she gasped for breath.

"Heather?" He stood up, reaching for the call button at the head of the bed.

The nurse came almost immediately.

"She's diabetic. I think she's going into shock."

"She never told us," the nurse replied, and for the first time Grissom wondered whether Heather had deliberately let a client do this to her, whether the attempted murder was in fact attempted suicide. Heather was a passionate, tempestuous woman, capable of desperate acts – her treatment of her daughter's killer a case in point. Could she have masterminded her attack to conceal a much darker truth? He closed his eyes briefly, yet unable to believe it to be fact, then watched as Heather slowly came to.

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><p>Grissom paused just outside the lab door, a fond smile on his lips as he quietly watched Sara compare rope fibres under the microscope. Heather's words came back to him. Yes, they took a risk working side by side while maintaining a romantic relationship. But as he'd told Heather it was a risk worth taking, and he couldn't imagine their lives any other way. He was a lucky man; he had it all.<p>

He stepped inside the room, all the way to the table. "Any results on Heather Kessler?" he asked. It was a legitimate question, he thought, he was boss after all.

"So far all the prints come back to her," Sara replied, looking up from the microscope, "Player piano, whiskey bottle, shot glass. There was some lipstick around the rim." Sara picked up a sealed evidence bag, lifting it in his eye line. "I haven't had time to test it. Do you think it's her shade?"

He was pondering the implication of finding Heather's prints and lipstick on the glass when Sara's question made it through. His brow rose at her tone, as did his eyes. Was she jealous? Hadn't they been through all that already? Sara failed to suppress her teasing smile and he relaxed – a little.

"She's not supposed to drink because of her diabetes," he said, perplexed, as Sara presented him with the first real piece of evidence sustaining his theory, "Which could explain the hypoglycaemia and shock."

She nodded. "Catherine found a pair of men's underwear in the toilet; any evidence on them would have been washed away, but she also found seminal fluid in a tissue on the floor nearby."

"She was sexually assaulted?" he asked, stunned, when in fact he couldn't help wondering whether Heather had broken one of her own cardinal rules and had consensual sex with a client.

"She refused an SAE kit so we'll never know. There were no defensive wounds. No skin or rope fibres under her nails. At first blush, I figured he might have ambushed her, except that I noted three separate strangulation attempts on her neck."

Sara paused and picked up the shot of the strangulation marks on Heather's neck which she passed to him. He didn't need to see the image to remember the three individual marks vividly; sadly he'd noticed them too.

"She had time to fight back," Sara surmised sadly.

He kept his eyes on the trembling picture in his hand as he spoke. "This makes no sense," he argued quietly, still unable and unwilling to face the truth for what it was. "She's very strong and tough as nails. Why didn't she fight?" he asked, glancing up enquiringly at Sara.

"You know her," she said, but there was no antagonism in her voice, just deep sadness and empathy. "What do you think? We all know she's a dominatrix but this-"

"Was," he couldn't help but quietly amend to Sara's puzzlement. And to him, that made all the difference. Holding Sara's gaze he gave her a nod, a nod that said without words all he couldn't tell her at that moment in time, then just turned around and left. They both knew where he was headed next, and it wasn't his office.

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><p>Heather had let him in, visibly expecting his visit, and silently taken him to the lounge. She'd offered to make tea, as per their ritual, and he'd accepted. And like that their easy intimacy was restored. Their talk had been a quiet one, between two friends, over cups of tea in the lounge. She was showing him the picture of Alison when loud knocking on the front door's plate glass startled them.<p>

"I'll get it," he said, handing back to her the frame, "And tell them you're not well enough for visitors."

"I appreciate the thought, but it's not necessary."

Heather put the frame back on the mantelpiece, leaving the lounge to answer the front door.

"This isn't a good time," he heard her say, and he knew Brass was at the door.

"I have a warrant to search your house," Brass said, and Grissom let out a deep sigh. "You'd better put some sunblock on 'cos we're going downtown." He couldn't help shake his head at the detective's crassness.

"My memory isn't any better now than it was yesterday. I'm not up to it."

"Well, we'll swing by the hospital and you can explain to them why you checked yourself out early against doctor's orders," Brass said.

"We're investigating a homicide," he heard Catherine pipe up.

"I don't understand."

"Where were you last night?" Brass asked, and picking up his cup of tea Grissom moved to the door, ready to intervene if the need arose. He had a feeling Heather wouldn't thank him for it if he made his presence known unless invited to.

"You may come in." The door closed. "I was here," Heather said.

"Can someone verify that? Preferably someone not on the payroll."

"Captain Brass would like to know where I was last night."

Grissom took that as his cue and schooling his features into what he hoped was a casual expression stepped out of the shadows into the lobby. "She was here, with me," he said, coolly bringing the cup to his lips.

There was a stunned silence. Then Catherine's eyes widened, the look they sent him close to murderous while Brass erupted in a disbelieving chuckle. "You rescued her ass once, but not again Grissom," he said.

"It's the truth," Grissom stated quietly.

The captain's hands lifted, opening out, and he dropped them helplessly with a heavy sigh. "Are you sure about this?" he asked meaningfully.

Grissom pinched his lips and gave his friend a slow nod of the head.

Brass swallowed, watched Grissom for a moment longer and then shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing, Gil, because if―if you…" he let his words trail with a sigh, his hands clenching into fists by his side, but the warning look he threw Grissom said it all.

"Come on, Jim," Catherine said, turning toward Heather and the open door, "We're wasting our time here."

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><p>"Sara will fill you in," Catherine said, still angry, as he walked into the layout room. He'd hoped to be able to have a quiet word with Sara and explain before she'd have to hear second-hand where he'd been, but it would appear that yet again he was too late.<p>

"We may have a suspect," she said, holding his gaze briefly before looking down at the bundle of evidence in front of her.

She was upset, he could tell. "I thought you understood," he wanted to say, "I thought you knew they'd find me there." He stared, full of remorse as she tidied her papers.

"I'm the only one she trusts," he tried, leaning his hands on the light table.

"I get it."

His eyes flicked down uncertainly, then back up to her face. "Sara…"

She met and held his gaze. What he saw there didn't fill him with confidence. "Yeah?"

His mouth opened but the words left him and he looked down. What? Apologise for doing his job? For looking out for a friend? For not spelling out to her he'd spend the night there – again? Hadn't they been through this once before?

"It's fine," she said when blatantly she wasn't, breaking the heavy silence. "Do what you need to do." With a sad look she moved past him, leaving him to his bewilderment.

"Sara, wait!" he called, rushing out into the corridor and following her to evidence lock-up. He closed the door behind them and flicked the lock on the handle. "We've been through this before," he said quietly, and she turned to face him. "I thought you knew where I was going." His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. "She's a mess, Sara. What else was I supposed to do?"

Sara didn't respond and he sighed, opting to change tack and be completely honest with her. "I think she tried to kill herself, Sara," he said earnestly. "I think that she carefully staged the scene to make her suicide look like murder. Either she paid whoever assaulted her to make it look like a murder, or she manipulated him through role play into doing it."

"Did she say anything that would corroborate that?" Sara asked.

He shrugged. "No directly. But she led me to believe it was possible. She's in a bad way, Sara, depressed, sullen, indifferent. She's lost her will to live. I'm worried about her."

Sara's anger seemed to dissipate and she sighed. "Do you think she could try again?"

"I don't know."

Sara nodded. "Doesn't she have…any family, anyone else who could stay with her, look after her? I mean, if only while the investigation's on-going?"

"She does, but I'd need to look into it. I'm not sure they could help anyway."

Sara gave him a thoughtful nod and a smile. His hand rose to her face, brushing over her cheek. She pulled back, glancing through the open blinds into the corridor, and he nodded.

"I got paperwork to do now," he said, "but we'll take later; I'll take you out for breakfast to that new sushi place you want to try."

Her brow rose, her lips twitching with an excited smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said solemnly.

"Sushi for breakfast?" she grinned. "You're on. Don't let me down."

"I love you," he mouthed, holding her gaze.

Sara hummed a dubious reply, but the grin still danced on her lips.

He cast a furtive look through the open blinds, then turned so he had his back to the window and took her hand, gently pulling her toward him. He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "Don't you ever forget it," he said in a whisper.

Sara's question had weighed heavily in his mind, and he realised he knew very little of Heather's past. She'd only ever shown him what she wanted him to see, and although curious it wasn't in his nature to pry. Last night though, before Brass and Catherine's intrusion, she'd as much as told him that as the submissive in the role play that led to her injuries she had chosen not to stop the pain, to let it go on, enduring it until her subconscious had stepped in, overriding her will to let herself be killed.

She'd also confessed to knowing through Dr Robbins that Zoe had given birth and to having the child, a little girl named Alison, tracked down. She'd showed him the photo she kept on the mantelpiece, but when pressed for more details had closed off. Had Zoe given Alison up for adoption? And if not, who had custody of her now? Was this where he should start looking for answers, for a reprieve for his friend?

He met with Sara for breakfast and shared with her his discovery, the fraught custody battle over Alison which in the end, unsurprisingly maybe, had gone in favour of the paternal grandfather, Jerome Kessler. Heather had lost her daughter, and now the granddaughter she'd never met, didn't know existed until a few months previously, which went to explain her frail mental state now, her wretchedness.

"Do you think it symbolic that she kept her married name all these years?" Sara asked when he finished his account.

He'd wondered the exact same thing, thinking it strange considering Heather's fierce independence. "I don't know," he said in a small smile. "A lot of what Heather does doesn't make much sense to me anymore."

Sara nodded her head and averted her eyes to her plate. "So, what are you waiting for?" she asked, looking up as she placed a small parcel of tuna fish wrapped in spinach leaves on her tongue.

Grissom gave a wince as she swallowed, his eyes dropping to his tried and tested calamari special salad. "What do you mean?" he asked, bringing a forkful to his mouth.

Sara lifted her shoulder. "I'm surprised you've not contacted him already."

"It's not my place. I-"

"Heather won't get better just like that, Gil. Zoe died more than a year ago and she obviously never got over it. Losing her granddaughter was the last straw."

Grissom nodded, pondering her words, still debating with himself whether his meddling into Heather's affairs would be overstepping the mark.

"So, what are you waiting for?" she asked again.

"How do you know I tracked him down?"

The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Well, didn't you?"

"Are you implying that I would use CSI resources for my own personal ends?" he asked in a chuckle.

"We've all done it," she said, her face darkening suddenly.

Knowing that she was referring to her own little investigation into her mother's conviction he gave her a smile and a nod, then reached for her hand on the table.

"You've got to be more careful," Sara said, gently pulling her hand out from under his and sliding it next to her plate. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear she glanced around the restaurant, "or we might get seen."

The melancholy in her voice made him sad as he wanted nothing more than to show off his love for her, display it for everyone to see but he knew the risk was too great.

"Have you got his number on you?" she asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Refocusing his eyes he nodded his head.

"Then call it. Arrange a meeting, and do it now. If you're right and Heather were to…" she stopped and smiled, her shoulder lifting, "you couldn't live with yourself knowing you hadn't tried everything to help her. It's the right thing to do," she added, dissipating the last of his hesitation.

* * *

><p>Balancing on his knee the heavy box containing the still-incomplete half-inch scale model of his office he slotted the key into the lock, letting himself into the house with a long weary sigh before easing the box on the side table by the door. He couldn't wait to tell Sara about the text message he'd just received from Art Schuster at the hobby shop telling him he'd found someone willing to create a perfect half-inch scale replica of Miss Piggy.<p>

"So?" Sara asked in a mumble. "Was I right?"

Her smug tone raised a chuckle. He turned toward the lounge, his face breaking into a wide smile on finding her curled up on the couch eating yoghurt. Hank got off the couch, gave a wide yawn and himself a good shake and set off across the room toward him at a sauntering pace. The television was on low and Sara wore her customary tank top and shorts, her hair up in a messy ponytail and a playful grin as she brought the spoon to her lips. There was no place on earth he'd rather come home to than there with her and Hank, his family.

"You didn't have to wait up," he said, giving Hank a quick rub around the ears.

"I didn't," she said, the standard retort ever since that teasing moment in his office when he'd been more content to read Thoreau than go home with her.

He tossed his keys into the bowl, his jacket on the coat stand and after toeing his shoes off joined her, collapsing on the couch next to her with a sigh of relief.

Slowly Sara put her spoon and yoghurt pot down on the low table in front of them and shifted her body until she sat almost astride the couch. Then she tugged at his arm and shoulder, gently rotating him round until he half-laid, half-sat on her with his legs stretching out over the arm of the couch. He closed his eyes, letting out another long breath, one of contentment and wellbeing, as her hands moved to his face and expertly began massaging the tender spots.

"Thank you." His eyes opened and smiling he leaned his head back and stared at her upside down.

She acknowledged his thanks with a soft nod, and bending forward brushed her lips to his. "I love you too," she said in a whisper. "Don't you ever forget it either."


End file.
